I Wish I Knew What My Insides Look Like
I mean that figuratively, mostly, but not entirely
When I was a little girl, I had what you’d call a love/hate relationship with my body, but not the way you might be thinking. I wasn’t one of those kids who’s already scrutinizing their reflection in the mirror, looking for things to hate. No, I wasn’t the biggest fan of my bushy, biracial hair or my somewhat oblong face. But those were minor details at best to me.
I was more concerned with how you couldn’t simply unzip your body and take it off for a while when you got too hot or uncomfortable the way you could with a jacket or a sweater. Because to me, it felt like something you ought to be able to do.
It still does.
When I think of myself in my purest form, stripped of as many layers as possible, I don’t think of my naked body made of meat, bone, and blood. Instead, I think of something unknowable and intangible buried somewhere deep within this body. This nameless something is stuck wherever it is and cannot break free for reasons I still don’t entirely understand.
I don’t feel like I am a body so much as I simply have one, just as I have clothes to wear or a house to live in. I feed it, clean it, and ride around in it all day. I’ve learned to take pride in how well I can take care of it…
